
Meretlein
Moderator
- Feb 15, 2019
- 1,199
One nursery rhyme particularly stands out from my childhood; it is one that I am sure many of you here also remember. It goes-
"So-and-so and So-and-so sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage."
It is a timeless nursery rhyme, one that I heard playfully sung many times as a little girl and many more times as an adult working with kids. While on the surface, the song exists to tease, its existence alludes to the fact that romance and partnering up is on the mind of most people from a very young age. How much of this is mimicry of adults, as children often do, or genuine attraction is something that I cannot ascertain.
I have never had a crush. I always thought the proverbial butterflies people talked about getting around their crushes were metaphorical. Because of this, I do not know when people experience their first, nascent flutterings of attraction. However, I do know when I began to hear the first susurrations of my divergence and when those faint susurrations turned into a cacophony. It is time for a walk down memory lane.
I had no clue that I was different as a child. Other girls often talked about their crushes, and I spoke of my own "crushes." I always thought that having a crush on someone meant that you found them aesthetically appealing, so I would simply pick a boy I found to be good-looking and say that I had a crush on him. One such instance of this occurred in 2nd grade when I thought I had a crush on a third-grade boy. Consequently, I would gleefully tell my friends that I liked a third-grader whenever the topic arose. As I said before, I do not know how much of the other girls talking about crushes was merely mimicking adult behavior.
"I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."
As would be expected, my teen years were when those faint susurrations hinting at my asexuality turned into a cacophony that I could no longer be deaf to. When I entered my teen years, I became an object of desire. I was both amused and confused by this new form of attention that I was beginning to get. I could start writing about moments I was leered at by grown men or when boys in my school would harass me, but those moments were not instrumental in discovering my asexuality.
What was instrumental in discovering my asexuality was experiencing relationships firsthand and being confused by my partners' effusive emotionality and sexual interest. When I was 15, I decided that I should get a boyfriend in order to experience my first kiss. It was a confusing and uncomfortable experience. I would mostly spend my time avoiding him. Everything he did made no sense to me. I broke up with him the day after we first kissed. I immensely regret that relationship, not for my sake but for his. My next relationship was not nearly as regretful. After realizing that I was not attracted to men, I assumed I was a lesbian. My friend asked me out, and I accepted. Memories of this relationship feel like a fond fever dream of a time when I was almost a typical teenage girl. Nonetheless, I realized that I was not sexually or romantically attracted to my girlfriend, so I broke the relationship off.
There was no eureka moment in realizing that I am asexual. Over time I came to accept that I am absent of all sexual and romantic feelings. At first, I was immensely disheartened by this, as I desperately wanted to be normal.
The asexual experience is fundamentally one of separation. It is as if everyone is dancing to music that you cannot hear. Sexual relationships are elevated as the paragon of the human experience, and therefore anyone who does not participate in them is pitied as missing out on something essential to being human.
The question of whether I would change my sexuality is one that I am hopelessly torn on. The world is imbued with romance and sexuality, from the books we read, movies we watch, and the songs we listen to. Seemingly everyone is striving for a sexual relationship, and I am nothing but an outsider looking in. Just a few weeks ago, I was visiting my elderly neighbor, and she decided to tell me the story of how she and her first husband met. It was a delightfully charming story. Even though I am absent of all romantic inclinations, I still find the sentiment beautiful. I couldn't help but feel a flash of sadness while listening to her story, knowing that I am barred from those experiences. On the other hand, sexual and romantic feelings are deeply alien to me. They seem to change a person, and I am quite comfortable with who I am. In either case, there is no way to change your sexuality. I will always be watching people dance to music I cannot hear, whether I wish to join them or not.
I have written this post to share my experience of being asexual. It should be noted that not only am I asexual but also aromantic, so my experience is different from the majority of the asexual community. I would love it if other asexuals shared their own stories here.
"So-and-so and So-and-so sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage."
It is a timeless nursery rhyme, one that I heard playfully sung many times as a little girl and many more times as an adult working with kids. While on the surface, the song exists to tease, its existence alludes to the fact that romance and partnering up is on the mind of most people from a very young age. How much of this is mimicry of adults, as children often do, or genuine attraction is something that I cannot ascertain.
I have never had a crush. I always thought the proverbial butterflies people talked about getting around their crushes were metaphorical. Because of this, I do not know when people experience their first, nascent flutterings of attraction. However, I do know when I began to hear the first susurrations of my divergence and when those faint susurrations turned into a cacophony. It is time for a walk down memory lane.
I had no clue that I was different as a child. Other girls often talked about their crushes, and I spoke of my own "crushes." I always thought that having a crush on someone meant that you found them aesthetically appealing, so I would simply pick a boy I found to be good-looking and say that I had a crush on him. One such instance of this occurred in 2nd grade when I thought I had a crush on a third-grade boy. Consequently, I would gleefully tell my friends that I liked a third-grader whenever the topic arose. As I said before, I do not know how much of the other girls talking about crushes was merely mimicking adult behavior.
"I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."
- Jessica Rabbit
As would be expected, my teen years were when those faint susurrations hinting at my asexuality turned into a cacophony that I could no longer be deaf to. When I entered my teen years, I became an object of desire. I was both amused and confused by this new form of attention that I was beginning to get. I could start writing about moments I was leered at by grown men or when boys in my school would harass me, but those moments were not instrumental in discovering my asexuality.
What was instrumental in discovering my asexuality was experiencing relationships firsthand and being confused by my partners' effusive emotionality and sexual interest. When I was 15, I decided that I should get a boyfriend in order to experience my first kiss. It was a confusing and uncomfortable experience. I would mostly spend my time avoiding him. Everything he did made no sense to me. I broke up with him the day after we first kissed. I immensely regret that relationship, not for my sake but for his. My next relationship was not nearly as regretful. After realizing that I was not attracted to men, I assumed I was a lesbian. My friend asked me out, and I accepted. Memories of this relationship feel like a fond fever dream of a time when I was almost a typical teenage girl. Nonetheless, I realized that I was not sexually or romantically attracted to my girlfriend, so I broke the relationship off.
There was no eureka moment in realizing that I am asexual. Over time I came to accept that I am absent of all sexual and romantic feelings. At first, I was immensely disheartened by this, as I desperately wanted to be normal.
The asexual experience is fundamentally one of separation. It is as if everyone is dancing to music that you cannot hear. Sexual relationships are elevated as the paragon of the human experience, and therefore anyone who does not participate in them is pitied as missing out on something essential to being human.
The question of whether I would change my sexuality is one that I am hopelessly torn on. The world is imbued with romance and sexuality, from the books we read, movies we watch, and the songs we listen to. Seemingly everyone is striving for a sexual relationship, and I am nothing but an outsider looking in. Just a few weeks ago, I was visiting my elderly neighbor, and she decided to tell me the story of how she and her first husband met. It was a delightfully charming story. Even though I am absent of all romantic inclinations, I still find the sentiment beautiful. I couldn't help but feel a flash of sadness while listening to her story, knowing that I am barred from those experiences. On the other hand, sexual and romantic feelings are deeply alien to me. They seem to change a person, and I am quite comfortable with who I am. In either case, there is no way to change your sexuality. I will always be watching people dance to music I cannot hear, whether I wish to join them or not.
I have written this post to share my experience of being asexual. It should be noted that not only am I asexual but also aromantic, so my experience is different from the majority of the asexual community. I would love it if other asexuals shared their own stories here.